


the world's not waiting

by lightbrigade (mirrorchord)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: BDSM, Consent Play, F/M, Genderswap, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 09:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19292839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirrorchord/pseuds/lightbrigade
Summary: Patrick jerks off, at some point.F/M version of the original story posted 2014.





	the world's not waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes: contains bdsm elements (including brief mentions of knives and rough sex) and some implications of fantasized noncon/consent play (assumed to be consensual).
> 
> This is a f/m version of the original story, posted in 2014, with slight edits for flow as well. Only Gerard is genderswapped here, so it's written as male Patrick/female Gee. It's set early in both their careers, probably 2003-ish. I used some characterizations that I developed in conversation with a friend—Patrick is young and quietly dominant and very polite, but nursing a potential to be quite vicious, and Gerard is also young and eager and generally less self-conscious about her desires (read: raging sub, in a dramatic kind of way). And a giant nerd.

One of the things about being on tour that Patrick is still, despite everything, not used to, is the fact that he’s never home. You’d think that was obvious, but it gets to you. You’re constantly racketing around in a rickety old van, and the truth is, living off cereal cups and fake milk made from seven-eleven coffee creamer gets old _fast_.

Patrick’s not stupid; he knows the band life isn’t really glamorous, but it had to be at least a little cool, right?

But right now, he just wants a goddamn _actual bed_ with a warm blanket and maybe even some indoor heating. That would be great. He wants a room to himself and some reliable wifi. He wants to be able to walk out of the room (that he has to himself) and open a fridge to see the groceries he bought and make some pasta with actual pasta sauce. He doesn’t care if that makes him old and unadventurous at the age of nineteen.

And once he’s got a mug of hot chocolate—in his actual mug, with his name on it, that Pete bought for him—he wants to huddle in his bed with his blanket and his laptop and jerk off. To himself. Or, not _to himself,_ but for himself—whatever.

This is getting to him.

So today, since everyone is finally conveniently away, Patrick’s taking some luxurious time off in this rickety shack to lock the doors, close the blinds, and go for a ride.

He flops over the edge of the lower bunk—this is Pete’s bunk, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to care—and presses his hand in between his legs, smushed between his stomach and the weeks-old musty blankets. It’s soft, and warm, and he wraps himself into Pete’s fluffy old muddy-blue comforter to get cozy. He sticks his hand down the front of his jeans and swipes his thumb idly back and forth over his stomach—he doesn’t really pay attention to this part of his body anytime else, but his skin is smooth and warm and he closes her eyes, casting about for something comfortably distracting.

Someone knocks on the door. God _damn_.

Patrick breathes through his teeth, kicks off the blankets, buttons his jeans, and opens the door, tugging his shirt down in the back with his other hand.

Gee Way looks back at him, following the motion of Patrick’s hand with the corner of her eye. Patrick blinks away the urge to shake her and raises his eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I, uh, I thought I would come check if Mikey left my copy of _Doom Patrol_ issue twenty here,” Gee says, sounding distracted. She looks back up at Patrick’s face, and raises a hand to push the stringy black hair out of her eyes and look as earnest as fucking possible. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure if anyone would even be here, but I can’t find Mikey either and it was worth a try.”

Patrick waves a hand impatiently in the direction of the cluttered entrance hall, if you could call it that. “Yeah, yeah, you can check around if you want, but I haven’t seen it. Sorry,” he adds, his usual manners coming back.

“No problem!” Gee bounces in—seriously?—and looks around, taking in the mess before she steps around the stained table to sit on the probably-stained sofa. Patrick closes the door behind her and surreptitiously checks the lock.

“Why’s it so dark in here, anyway? I mean, I’m not very into the whole light thing myself, but I can’t see anything—oh!” Gee stands up and reaches across the sofa to pull on the lamp string, the old-fashioned lamp string for the old-fashioned lamp they’d stolen from Pete’s fancy-ass house in the Wilmette suburbs. The room flickers into brightness and Gee gets on her knees to look under the table.

Patrick stands at the door and watches.

Gee sticks out the tip of her tongue and presses it to her lips, concentrating, and ducks her head to look under the sofa. She sits up again in two seconds, coughing, and Patrick belatedly says, “Don’t—”

Gee looks up at him through watering eyes. _Jesus_.

Patrick sighs and steps over a few guitar magazines, pulling the table out on its creaky wooden legs to give her some room, and sits down on the sofa. Gee looks at him, bright-eyed, and says “Thanks!”

Patrick nods. “No problem.” Then, in an effort to be social, he says, “I don’t think the underside of that sofa’s seen the light since Pete’s mom got married.”

Gee snorts and wipes her forehead. “Yeah, this is gonna be a futile endeavor,” she says. “I should really just ask Mikey what happened to it. Or Pete, I guess.”

Patrick nods again. Maybe she's leaving? “Yeah, that’s probably the best idea,” he says, encouragingly.

“Yeah, okay,” Gee says, and stands up. “Thanks for letting me look, anyway!” She steps over _Guitar World_ and tries the door, which is locked. She unlocks it and steps out. “I’ll see you around!” She waves, and closes the door.

Patrick stares at the covered window for a few seconds before he gets up and locks the door. “Yeah,” he answers, to nobody.

Patrick bends over, picks up a copy of _Rolling Stone_ and a copy of _Kerrang!,_ and tosses them on the table. He crosses back over to the bunks and resituates himself in Pete’s blankets, kicking his feet to get them under the comforter. Once the sheets are reassuringly heavy on top of him, he closes his eyes, sticks his hand between his legs, and presses his hand up on his cock.

Jesus, he’s actually turned on. Figures.

He feels a _little_ bad, but the first image to come to mind now is Gee Way on her knees, looking up at him with eyes his brain tells him are red-rimmed and crying. Dream-Patrick cups her face in his hand, forcing her chin up a little, and swipes under her eye with his thumb. Gee’s eyes fall shut a little.

Patrick digs his fingers into the underside of Gee’s chin, startling her eyes open. He grabs her hair with his other hand, pulls her head back, and slaps her across the face. It makes a satisfying sound. Gerard tries to wrench her head away, but it pulls on Patrick’s grip in her hair and she gasps, hands falling to her sides. She doesn’t look up.

Patrick starts to bend down to look at her, but then he changes his mind and pulls Gee up by the hair instead, one hand helpfully under her armpit. She’s so _small—_ on stage, she whirls around larger than life and screams like she’s calling an entire city to arms, but here, it’s easy for Patrick to throw her on the bed and cover her with his own body. It’s easy to grasp both her wrists in one hand and hold them down over her head, keep them out of the way so Patrick can run his other hand down Gee’s side and curl his fingers around Gee’s pointy hipbone. Gee tilts her head back and kicks her feet, twisting to the side, and Patrick slams her hips back down on the bed. Gee goes limp and pants under him, staring up. Looking scared.

Patrick grabs onto the blanket he’s lying on and twists it in his hand, giving himself something more to grind down on. He imagines dragging his dick over Gee’s thigh, holding her down and immobile by her hips, threatening. He imagines Gee crying out, feet scrabbling against the mattress, wide-eyed and pleading _no_. He imagines letting go of Gee’s hips only for her to push up against his hands, against his dick, squeezing her eyes shut helplessly. He imagines grabbing Gee by the waist, pulling her down on his cock, pulling her to the side by her hair and biting hard, thrusting up—

Patrick bares his teeth and pants. His vision is blurred, full of Gee with come on the inside of her thighs, Gee begging for his scratch marks with her naked hips, Gee on her knees with her throat bared to Patrick’s knife, Gee waiting, frozen, when Patrick tells her not to _fucking_ move before he hits her, Gee with her obscene mouth choking on Patrick’s cock—

Patrick breathes hard, pushes the heel of his hand between his legs, and bites down on his own arm.

If he falls asleep on Pete’s bed, Pete’ll probably know something was up, but he really really doesn’t want to move. It’s not like he doesn’t know when _he_ jerks off, anyway. The lights are on out front, the doors are locked, and he’ll see the others when they get back. Maybe he’ll see Gee, too. He’ll find her copy of _Doom Patrol_ for her. That’ll be a great excuse.


End file.
